Bugged By Murder
by Nonny A
Summary: Someone is out to prevent Steve and Mark from providing crucial evidence in a murder case – one way or another.


Det

DISCLAIMER: "Diagnosis Murder" and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes.

RATING: G

SUMMARY: Someone is out to prevent Steve and Mark from providing crucial evidence in a murder case – one way or another.

BUGGED BY MURDER

Det. Lt. Steve Sloan was leaving the police station, having just wrapped up a murder investigation. 

"You know, I still can't believe Blain actually kept a written record of his entire plan," Steve said.

"Well, it's in keeping with his whole personality," replied his father, Dr. Mark Sloan. "He's always been very methodical about everything – doesn't like to act without first planning it all out."

"Well, it's a good thing you figured out where he was keeping his 'planning book'; without it, we'd have a hard time proving anything."

"So now how about taking some time to grab a bite of lunch?" asked Mark.

"I guess after all the overtime I've put in on this case, I can wangle a bit of time for lunch," Steve replied with a smile. "Shall we go over to Bob's?"

"I was thinking of something a bit more special to celebrate the end of this case. What do you say we try that new Italian place that just opened up?" suggested Mark. "My treat."

Steve grinned. "Sounds like a great offer to me." 

As they set off for Mark's car, a squeal of tires was heard, as a car swerved rapidly around another vehicle and headed in their direction. Steve looked up alertly, his instincts kicking in, and he saw a flash of sunlight glint off the metal barrel of a gun. He instantly turned to fling himself at his father, carrying him to the ground.

The sound of shots rang out, as Steve crashed to the ground on top of Mark. There were shouts and people running, as other officers rushed over to see what had happened. Mark struggled to regain his breath, feeling the weight of his son's body still covering him.

"Steve?" he queried anxiously. "**Steve**!" Failing to get a response, he felt a surge of panic. He quickly, but carefully, rolled out from under his son, to see blood staining Steve's shirt and flowing profusely from the side of his head. Frantically, he called out to the approaching officers, "I need an ambulance out here!" He desperately tried to subjugate his emotions as a father to his training as a doctor. Heart pounding, he checked the extent of his son's injuries. The blood on Steve's shirt was coming from a wound in the upper right shoulder area of his chest. A quick examination indicated that it was bleeding heavily , although it had probably missed the lung. Mark wadded up his handkerchief and pressed it against the wound. He enlisted one of the officers who had arrived on the scene to keep pressure on the makeshift bandage while he checked out the head wound. He felt a deep sense of relief as he realized that the bullet had just grazed the side of Steve's head. Prevented by the absence of any of his medical tools from further probing the severity of the injuries, he could only wait in frustration and anxiety for the ambulance to arrive.

In the ambulance, Steve finally showed signs of regaining consciousness. Through the haze of pain, he opened his eyes and looked around, recognizing even through his blurred vision the all-too-familiar interior of an ambulance. As memory returned, a flare of anxiety swept through him.

"Dad?" he called, his voice weak, but with a sharp edge of concern.

"I'm here, son," came the immediate response in the familiar, slightly deepened voice. He felt his father's hand on his unwounded shoulder and turned toward the voice.

"Are you alright?" he asked, trying to focus on his father's face.

Mark looked down at him. "I'm fine – thanks to you," he replied gruffly, patting his son's good shoulder gently. "And you're going to be fine, too," he continued, trying to maintain professional assurance in his voice.

Reassured about his father's safety, Steve found himself drifting off again into blackness. Mark sat beside him, one hand remaining on his son's shoulder, his eyes never leaving Steve's face.

Once at Community General Hospital, Mark trotted alongside the stretcher, as the medics wheeled Steve into the Emergency Room. They were met by Dr. Jesse Travis, who immediately started barking out orders to the nurses and attendants, as Mark reported Steve's condition and vital signs, in a voice he had to work hard to keep steady. They rapidly wheeled Steve into one of the trauma rooms, and lifted him onto the examining table. 

Nerves stretched taut, Mark worked with Jesse to check for signs of trauma and internal damage. He was profoundly relieved to discover that things looked better than he had feared. The shoulder wound was indeed non-critical, and, while there were definite signs of concussion, there was no immediate indication of intra-cranial bleeding. They ordered X-rays and a CT scan, and alerted the OR to prepare for surgery to remove the bullet from Steve's shoulder. As Steve was wheeled out to go up to the operating room, Jesse paused for a moment to place a hand on Mark's shoulder.

"He's going to be okay, Mark," he reassured his friend before he hurried after the gurney. 

Mark stood staring after them, watching his son disappear down the corridor. This was the part he hated most. As agonizing as it was to be treating his own son for serious injuries, it was even harder to stand by and do nothing. He had complete faith in Jesse, whom he considered an exceptionally gifted ER doctor, but nothing could take away the need to do whatever he possibly could to help his son.

Now that the action had passed to others, and there was no longer anything he could do, reaction set in. He felt weak and shaky, and he groped his way down the hall to the doctor's lounge and collapsed into a chair. At times like this, being a doctor was both a blessing and a curse. He knew that all indications were that his son was going to be fine – heaven knew Steve had survived much worse – but he also knew all the unexpected things that could go wrong. If it were anyone else, he would be professionally reassuring, genuinely convinced that everything would be fine. But this was his son, and he couldn't be at ease until Steve was safely out of surgery with an officially positive prognosis.

As Mark leaned back in the chair, he noticed blood on the sleeve of his jacket. He brought his arm up and around, and realized that the stain reached around the back of the garment. He pulled the jacket off and looked at the large patch of blood on the back, obviously from where Steve had landed on him. He was still staring at the blood – his son's blood – when Amanda came in, concern etched on her face. 

"Mark, I just heard that they brought Steve in!" she exclaimed, moving to his side and sitting down beside him. "How is he?"

"He took a bullet in the upper right shoulder," Mark replied, looking up at her, a hint of shakiness still showing in his voice. "And another one grazed the side of his head. But it looks like we got relatively lucky – the bullet to the shoulder doesn't seem to have hit anything vital, and he may have gotten away with only a moderate concussion from the head wound. He's up in the OR now."

Amanda breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God for that," she said. She noticed the bloody jacket he was holding, and reached out to give his arm a gentle squeeze. "I'm sure he'll be okay, Mark," she tried to reassure him, knowing that he wouldn't be comfortable until Steve was out of surgery. 

Mark smiled slightly and nodded. Amanda stayed with him, providing support and comfort as best she could while they waited for Jesse to return with news of Steve's condition. While they were waiting, Steve's partner Cheryl arrived.

"How's Steve?" Cheryl asked, as she came up to Mark.

"He's still in surgery, but he should be all right," Mark replied, knowing that Cheryl, too, was worried about Steve.

"Can you tell me exactly what happened?" Cheryl asked. "Nobody else seems to have gotten a good look at the car or seen who was in it."

"I'm afraid I didn't really get a good look either," Mark responded unhappily. "Steve and I were just walking over to my car – we were talking about where to have lunch. I heard tires squeal, and I just caught a glimpse of a dark-colored car, then Steve pushed me down, and I didn't see anything else." He glanced down at the blood-stained jacket in his hands, his heart twisting as he thought about how Steve had been more concerned for his father's safety than his own. Amanda placed a supportive hand on his back. "I heard the sound of gun shots," Mark continued, drawing a deep breath, "but I never saw the shooter."

"Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and talk to Steve," Cheryl declared with determined optimism. "Don't worry, we'll get whoever did this."

As Mark nodded grimly, Jesse entered the lounge. He flashed a reassuring smile, as three pairs of eyes fastened anxiously on him. "Steve's going to be fine," he declared. "We patched up his shoulder with no problem, and while he's got a pretty good concussion, the MRI shows no sign of subdural hematoma. He's going to be favoring his right arm for a while, but he should be up and out of here in a few days."

Amid the general relief, Cheryl asked how long it would be before she could talk to Steve. Upon hearing that it would probably be a few hours before he was fully conscious and coherent, she decided to go back to the station to see what she could do there. She left, promising to return later. Mark went up to Steve's room with Jesse, while Amanda returned to her unfinished work in the pathology lab.

Chapter 2

A couple of hours later, as Mark sat by his son's bedside, Steve began to stir. As he turned his head, looking around, he saw the familiar figure in the chair beside him. 

"Dad?" 

Mark turned quickly to look at him, his face lighting up into a smile.

"Hi there. How are you feeling?" he asked, leaning over to place a hand on his son's arm.

Steve thought about that for a moment. "Like I've been kicked in the head by a horse," he responded, his hand going up to the bandage on his temple.

"A .38 caliber horse," Mark responded dryly. "You were grazed by a bullet. You also took one in the right shoulder. Fortunately, they didn't do any major damage – you've definitely got a concussion, but you're going to be fine."

Steve frowned slightly, trying to remember the details of what had happened.

"Did they find the guys who shot at us?" he asked.

"Nobody got a good look at the car," Mark replied. "It all happened too fast." He looked down at his son seriously, and Steve could see the emotion reflected in his eyes as he added, "I couldn't tell them anything. You had me down and out of the way before I even realized what was happening." Mark gave his son a slightly twisted smile. "You scared me half to death," he said, his tone deliberately kept light. But Steve had no trouble interpreting the message he knew his dad was sending; it certainly hadn't been being suddenly shoved to the ground that had so frightened his father. His own smile held a great deal of affection as he responded, equally lightly, "Does that mean you're not going to take me to that new restaurant for lunch?"

This time the smile that lit Mark's eyes held only unshadowed affection. "I think I can give you a raincheck on that." 

As they exchanged looks, Jesse walked into the room.

"Well, it's nice to see you awake," he said, as he picked up the chart to check on the most recent entries. "I'm sure your dad's already told you that you'll live – it's a good thing you have such a hard head!"

"I have to, to work with you," Steve retorted.

"You know, you keep making snide remarks after I go through all the trouble of patching you up, and I'm going to have to ask you to stop coming here," Jesse quipped back.

Steve grinned at him. "So how about letting me out of here now?" 

"Sorry, buddy, I'm afraid you're going to be stuck here for a few days."

"Steve, you have a pretty good concussion there, and you lost a lot of blood," Mark interjected. "You're going to need several days of bed rest before you should be up and about."

Steve opened his mouth to respond, and interrupted himself with a yawn. The truth was that he was feeling groggy and weak, and he'd been through enough surgeries by now to know that it would be a few days before he was good for much anyway. He sighed.

"All right, Dad, I won't argue about it," he said.

Jesse's eyebrows went up. "You must be feeling worse than I expected!" he exclaimed. 

Mark and Steve both made faces at him, but he was saved from any rejoinders by the arrival of the dinner tray. Steve's face lit up.

"Oh good," he said. "Now that I think about it, I never did get lunch."

Mark and Jesse exchanged glances of disbelief over his enthusiasm for hospital food. 

"And to think I was going to waste a perfectly good luncheon at a real restaurant on him!" Mark lamented.

"Hey, you said you'd give me a raincheck on that, remember!" Steve reminded him with a grin. He then looked more sharply at his father. "Have you gotten yourself anything to eat yet?"

Mark shrugged. "I sort of lost my appetite," he said lightly.

Steve subjected him to a close scrutiny. He knew his father wouldn't have left the hospital since he'd been brought in, and he knew that he had to be suffering from reaction to the stress and anxiety he'd been through.

"Look, Dad, why don't you go on home and get something to eat and get some rest," he suggested. "I'm still pretty sleepy anyway. We can go over things in the morning." He yawned again for good measure. 

"Go ahead, Mark," Jesse urged. "I'll make sure he takes his medicine and gets his rest like a good boy."

Steve made a point of grimacing at his friend, although he was grateful for the support in his attempt to get his dad to go home. Mark smiled affectionately at the two of them. Steve strongly suspected that he knew perfectly well what they were doing, but he nodded and agreed. 

"All right then, I'll leave you to your hospital cuisine," Mark said. "I'll see you in the morning." He smiled at his son and his friend, and left.

Chapter 3

The next morning, Cheryl came by to see Steve. She had stopped by the previous night, but Steve had already fallen back asleep – the concussion and pain medications combining to keep him groggy. However, he felt considerably clearer in the morning, and they discussed what little he could tell her about the car and it's occupants. Unfortunately, he hadn't gotten a very clear view of the people either, although he was pretty sure that there had been only two people – a driver and one passenger who did the shooting. Under the circumstances, he explained dryly, he hadn't had a whole lot of time to look for license plate numbers. After promising to keep him informed of any progress they made, Cheryl left.

Jesse came by later in the morning to check on Steve and discuss the advisability of doing a little physical therapy to make sure the shoulder wound didn't result in restricted mobility in his right arm. Between the physical exams, the visit with Cheryl, and the effects of the blood loss and concussion, Steve found himself sleeping much of the rest of the morning. He woke up again around noon when his lunch tray was delivered. As he was eating, Amanda came in to visit. After the usual pleasantries, questions about how he was feeling, and quips about his tolerance for hospital food, Steve asked Amanda if she had seen Mark.

"I wanted to talk to him about the Blain case," Steve said, "but he hasn't come by yet today. At least not when I've been awake," he added.

"No, Steve, I haven't seen him," Amanda responded. "But I've been pretty busy in the path lab today. In fact, I probably should be getting back there." She got up and started for the door. "I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing. I'll be back later."

"Okay, see you later," Steve replied as she left.

Once outside Steve's room, Amanda went down to the ER, looking for Jesse. 

"Jesse, has Mark come in yet?" she asked, her face worried.

"No," replied Jesse, "nobody's seen him. And he's still not answering the phone or his pager."

"Steve's starting to ask about him," Amanda said. 

"What did you tell him?" Jesse asked.

"Nothing. He just asked me if I'd seen his dad, and I told him that I'd been busy in the path lab all morning. But I'm getting worried. It's not like Mark not to check in on Steve first thing. What if something's happened to him?"

"I know. But I hate to tell Steve until we're sure there's a problem. You know how he is about his dad. He'll work himself into a stew and want to get out and start looking for him. And we're not even sure there's a problem yet. Maybe Mark just overslept, or got stuck in traffic, or his car broke down, or something. He'd hate it if we got Steve all worked up for nothing."

"Jesse, you know he would have called us if any of those things had happened," Amanda protested.

"Maybe his cell phone is dead," Jesse replied, knowing that he was grasping at straws. When Amanda just looked at him skeptically, he suggested "How about if we call Cheryl and have her send somebody out to the house to check on things?"

"That's a good idea," Amanda agreed. "And maybe she should check any accident reports as well," she added soberly.

Jesse met her gaze silently, both of them thinking of the fact that somebody had shot at Steve and Mark the day before. "I think I'll wait to hear from Cheryl before I go back up to Steve's room," Jesse said. "At least that way, I'll have something to tell him when he asks."

Chapter 4

An hour later, Jesse went up to see Steve. He walked into the room, greeting his friend cheerfully. "Hey, how're you doing?" he asked.

"I'm fine, Jess," Steve responded. "Have you seen my dad? He hasn't been by yet, and every time I ask somebody about him, they haven't seen him and don't know where he is," he continued, frustration apparent in his voice. A faint crease appeared between his brows as he added, "It's not like Dad not to hover around here when I'm a patient."

When Jesse hesitated before responding, reluctant to meet his friend's eyes, Steve looked sharply at him, his vague feelings of uneasiness coalescing into an acute stab of anxiety. "Something's happened to Dad, hasn't it?" he demanded, his eyes riveted to his friend's face.

"We don't actually know that," Jesse hastened to say. 

"Jesse –" 

"It's just that nobody's seen him today, and he hasn't been answering his phone or his pages," Jesse explained. "But we don't really know that there's anything wrong," he added quickly, trying to soften the worry he saw plainly in his friend's face. "Maybe he just got stuck somewhere and his cell phone isn't working."

Steve just looked at him. "Has anyone been out to the house?" he asked.

Jesse nodded. "We called Cheryl," he replied, knowing that he was implicitly admitting that they were worried too. "She went out to the house and looked around. His car's not there, and there were breakfast dishes in the sink, so it looks like he left some time this morning." He met the concern in Steve's face frankly this time, and figured he might as well answer the next obvious question. "There haven't been any reports of any accidents involving his car or anyone fitting his description. So there's no real reason to assume anything's happened to him," he added, trying to downplay the situation. He might as well have saved his breath.

"No reason at all, except that he's missing – the day after somebody shot at us in the police station parking lot," Steve said grimly. He sat up and shoved the sheets aside.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Jesse asked, moving to prevent his friend from rising.

"I'm going to go find out what's happened to my father," Steve declared with determination. As he tried to shove Jesse out of the way, a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he had to put out a hand to support himself. Jesse took advantage of the situation to hold him back.

"Steve, you're in no condition to go anywhere yet," he said in concern. "You try to go stalking around out there and you're going to fall flat on your face."

"Jesse, my dad's in trouble – I can't just lie here and do nothing." Concern and frustration were clearly evident on Steve's face and in his voice.

"We don't know yet what the situation is," Jesse answered. "Cheryl's checking it out; there's nothing you could do right now that she's not already doing." He saw indecision war with the frustration on Steve's face. "You're not going to do your dad any good if you collapse," he continued, trying to clinch the matter. "At least wait until we hear from Cheryl again."

Steve sank back in defeat. He hated being laid up here when his father might need him. But he had to admit, to himself at least, that he was still too weak and dizzy to be much use. And Cheryl would already be taking the first steps: checking the accident and homicide reports, alerting the highway patrol and beat cops, and checking with the hospitals – and morgues. He felt the knot of anxiety in his stomach tighten at that last thought. 

"Get me my cell phone," he ordered Jesse. "I want to be able to keep in contact with Cheryl."

"Okay," Jesse responded, relieved that Steve was accepting the need to stay put, at least for now. 

"And while you're at it, I want the rest of my things as well, including my clothes – and my gun."

Jesse opened his mouth to argue, took a good look at his friend's face, and, with rare restraint, decided not to push the issue. 

A short while later, Jesse returned to Steve's room with his friend's possessions – a spare sweatshirt that Mark kept in his office taking the place of the ripped and bloodied shirt Steve had been wearing – and a somber countenance. Steve took one look at him and felt his stomach twist with anxiety again.

"Jesse?"

Jesse drew a breath. "Cheryl just called," he said. "They found Mark's car down an embankment off the highway – abandoned."

Steve stared at him, trying to think. "What condition is the car in?" he asked.

Jesse frowned, considering. "She didn't say it was wrecked. She just said it looked like it had been driven down the embankment. There was no sign of Mark."

Steve sat up, pushing aside the sheets again. "Don't argue with me this time, Jess," he warned. "I'm going over there if I have to push myself in a wheel chair."

Jesse looked at him and knew that there was no swaying him this time. He made the only decision he could. "I'll drive you," he said, handing Steve his clothes. He went off to get someone to cover for him for the rest of his shift while Steve got dressed.

Chapter 5

Steve and Jesse pulled up behind Cheryl's car at the side of the road. Steve got out as quickly as he could, leaning on the top of the car for a moment, as the dizziness hit him again. He knew he needed to remember to get up more slowly, but right now his attention was focused on finding out what had happened to his dad. He looked around and saw Mark's car towards the bottom of the slope – the front end partially hidden by a large bush. There were a couple of cops checking out the surrounding area. Steve headed down to the car, Jesse beside him, lending him a hand when he staggered going down the steep slope.

As they approached the car, Cheryl got out of it and came over to them, a frown on her face.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "You're supposed to still be in a hospital bed."

"Just tell me what you've got," Steve replied grimly.

Like Jesse, she looked him over and came to the conclusion that there was no point in arguing.

"We found the car empty," she said. "From the skid marks and the path through the brush, it looks like he was forced off the road. There're also scrapes and dents along the driver's side and rear that support that theory. There's no sign of him around, however," she continued. "We did a sweep of the whole area, just to make sure …" Her voice trailed off. Steve looked at her, knowing that she didn't want to mention the possibility that his father might have been lying somewhere in the area injured – or dead. 

"I found this wedged under the seat back," she continued, holding out a micro cassette recorder.

Steve reached out to take the device. "It's Dad's," he confirmed. "He used it for recording notes and memos to himself sometimes." Noticing that the cartridge in it had wound all the way to the end, he pressed the rewind button, waited a moment, then hit play. They heard Mark's voice, recording reminders about some things he wanted to check on a patient. Then there was the sudden sound of another engine revved high, a screech of tires, and Mark's voice suddenly ejaculating, "Hey! Are you crazy?!" The three listeners tensed, hearing the sound of the other vehicle running into Mark's car, and noises indicative of the two vehicles swerving and bumping. Then Mark's voice came again, rapid and tense: "I'm being run off the road by a green bug truck–" There was the noise of a collision, the unmistakable sound of Mark's car crashing through the brush, and a thump at the end, which sounded ominously like something hitting the windshield. Looking at the car, Steve saw a smear of blood on the driver's side window.

In the silence that followed, Jesse kept a worried eye on Steve, whose mouth was set hard in a very pale face. Before any of them could say anything, the silence on the tape was broken by the muffled sound of footsteps approaching the car. There was the sound of voices, too muted to make out clearly, then the sound of the car door being wrenched open. "Is he dead?" they heard a voice ask almost casually. Steve's whole body tensed, his entire being focused on the tape, waiting for the response. There was a moment of silence that seemed to last an eternity before the reply came: "Nah, he's just knocked out." Steve closed his eyes for a second as he resumed breathing. "Let's get him out of here before anybody comes along. We'll…" The tape ran out at that point, leaving a heavy silence.

Jesse looked at Steve, whose face was pale and lined. "At least we know he's still alive," he said, trying to be consoling. "We know he **was**," Steve replied, staring at the blood on the window, hearing again in his mind the sound of his father's head hitting it. They had no way of knowing how severe an injury he had incurred. "They didn't sound all that concerned with whether or not he stayed that way." 

"If they wanted to kill him, they would have done it right there," Cheryl pointed out. "They must want him alive."

"Why?" Steve asked, forcing his brain to think through the numbing effects of the concussion and the throbbing pain in his shoulder. "Who are they and what do they want with Dad?"

"Maybe they're looking for ransom," suggested Jesse doubtfully.

"Not likely," Cheryl replied. "He's not really a likely candidate for a ransom snatch. Kidnappers usually go after rich people's kids or spouses."

"Besides," interjected Steve impatiently, "you don't shoot at somebody one day and then kidnap him for ransom the next. And I don't believe in a totally independent kidnapping that just happens to come the day after someone shoots at us. The two incidents have to be related."

Another wave of dizziness hit him, and he swayed slightly. Jesse grabbed his arm to help support him. 

"Steve, you really should be back at the hospital," he said worriedly. Steve looked at him speculatively.

"Maybe that's the link," he said slowly. He looked around at the blank faces of his friend and partner. "Look, you're right about one thing, Jesse. Kidnappings usually happen because somebody wants something from a family member. It doesn't have to be money. Yesterday somebody tried to kill Dad and me. They failed at that, but I ended up in the hospital, where it'd be harder for them to get to me. So today they kidnapped Dad." He looked at them, keeping his face hard, but pain showing in his eyes. 

"So you're saying that these guys are after you?" asked Cheryl slowly.

"It makes sense," Steve replied grimly. "And if I'm right, they'll have to contact me to let me know what they want." He looked at Cheryl. "We need to get a tracer set up on my phone."

"You're not going back to the house!" exclaimed Jesse.

"I have to, Jess," Steve said firmly. "They need to contact me and we need to be ready when they do."

"Look, Steve, you said yourself they took Mark because they couldn't get to you in the hospital," Jesse argued. "So they know you're in the hospital! They're more likely to try to contact you there."

"We can set up a tracer on the hospital line," agreed Cheryl. She saw resistance in Steve's face and added, "We can forward your house line to the hospital. That way, even if they do call you at home, we'll still get the call, and we can still trace it."

Steve reluctantly allowed himself to be persuaded, knowing that he might need to conserve his energy for whatever would be required after they received the call from the kidnappers. What they had to do in the meantime was to try to pull together the pieces of information they already had, and, as his friends pointed out, that could just as well be done from his hospital room as anywhere else. 

Chapter 6

A little while later, Steve, Cheryl, Jesse, and Amanda were all in Steve's room, going over the information they had so far. As a concession to Steve's need to feel prepared for action, he was still in his street clothes; as a concession to Jesse's insistence that he was putting way too much strain on his system way too soon, he was in bed and hooked up to an IV. They were discussing the little information that they had been able to put together so far. They had replayed the tape several times, trying to determine if they could make out any more details that might provide a clue to the identity of the kidnappers. 

"It's lucky that the tape recorder slid underneath the seat back," Cheryl observed, as they listened.

"That wasn't luck," Steve replied, a momentary glint in his eyes.

"You think Mark deliberately put it there before he crashed?" asked Amanda.

Steve nodded. "Notice how the sounds get more muffled right as he's telling us about the truck? He must have shoved it under the seat back for us to find, hoping that whoever was after him wouldn't think to search through the car or would be in too much of a hurry."

"Pretty quick thinking," commented Cheryl.

Steve's mouth twisted slightly. "He's good at that."

"What do you suppose he meant by a 'bug truck'?" asked Cheryl.

"It could be an exterminator's truck," Jesse suggested.

"Or even a lawn service that uses pesticides," added Amanda. "They're more likely to be green."

"See if you can get a listing of all the exterminators and lawn services in the area," Steve asked Cheryl.

"Steve, there's got to be several hundred exterminators in the LA area!" Cheryl exclaimed.

"Then the sooner we start checking them out the better," Steve said grimly. As Cheryl picked up her cell phone to call the station, he added, "Have them send over the file on the Blain case while you're at it." Seeing the question in Jesse's and Amanda's faces, he explained, "The Blain case is the only really big one I've been working on lately. If these people are after something from me, there's a good chance they're somehow related to that case."

As they were waiting for the information to be sent over from the police station, Steve's cell phone rang.

"Sloan," he answered.

"We've got your old man," said a voice on the other end of the line. Steve tensed, flashing a quick signal to Cheryl to indicate that this was the kidnappers, even as he realized in frustration that it was much more difficult to trace a call to a cell phone.

"Who is this?" Steve asked.

"Who I am isn't important," replied the voice. "What's important is that you do what I say if you ever want to see the old man alive again."

"What do you want?"

"I want Blain's planning book," was the reply. "And you're going to get it back for me."

"That's been turned over to the D.A.'s office," said Steve. "There's no way I can get that back."

"Don't give me that. You're the investigating officer – you can get access to the evidence. I don't care how you do it. You can steal it for all I care; but if you want your father back, you'll get it and deliver it to me."

"Look, I can't…"

"Never mind the objections or trying to stall," the voice interjected. "You get the book and bring it to the monument in the municipal park at 7:00 tomorrow morning – alone. Or your old man dies."

"Listen, even if I can get the book, I'm not trading anything until I know my father's still alive," Steve declared grimly. "There was blood on his car window – for all I know, he could be dead already. You let me talk to him or there's no deal."

There was a brief silence, then the voice responded, "All right; but keep it real short."

Steve found himself holding his breath until the familiar voice said, "Steve?"

"Dad? Are you all right?" Steve asked, his own voice tense.

"Well, it's not exactly royal accommodations here, but I'm okay," came the reply in a reassuringly steady voice. The next moment, the kidnapper's voice returned.

"Okay, Sloan, you've heard him. Now bring the book to the park tomorrow morning at 7 or that's the last time you'll ever hear him." There was a click, and then silence.

Steve looked over at Cheryl, who was on the phone to the police station. She shook her head. "Okay, thanks," she said into the phone. She looked back at Steve, her expression unhappy. "They were calling from a cell phone," she said. Steve grimaced in frustration. "The best they could do was a general area in the southern part of the city."

There was a moment of silence, disappointment pervading the atmosphere. Jesse was the first to break it.

"So, what did they say?" he asked, his eyes on Steve's face.

"He wants Blain's planning book," Steve said, his face grim. "By 7:00 tomorrow morning."

"So, you were right about this being connected to the Blain case," Cheryl observed. 

Steve nodded. "The whole case depends on that book and Dad's and my testimony."

"So, having failed to kill you two, they decided to try to retrieve the book." Cheryl was watching her partner's face closely. "You can't give it to them."

"It's a great scheme, actually," Steve said bitterly. "They can't lose. If I give them the book, there's no case. If I don't give them the book, they kill Dad, removing one of the key witnesses." He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, the lines in his face and the tightness around his mouth betraying his anxiety.

There was another uncomfortable pause, then Amanda said hesitantly, "I gather you spoke to Mark. How did he sound?"

Steve looked at her, a glimmer of affection showing through the strain in his eyes. "Actually, he sounded pretty normal." His expression became intent. "And, being Dad, he tried to give us a clue." He paused for a moment, trying to recall his father's exact words. "He said something about the accommodations not being exactly 'royal'."

Cheryl looked at him blankly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That's what we've got to figure out," Steve declared with determination.

"Maybe he's trying to tell you the name of the place he's being held," suggested Jesse.

"Like the Royal Hotel or something?" asked Cheryl doubtfully.

Steve shook his head. "It couldn't be anything that direct or the kidnappers would pick up on it. It's got to be something less obvious, but that Dad knows we'll be able to figure out." He looked at Jesse and Amanda. "Is there anything associated with the word 'royal' or royalty, or anything like that that Dad's been involved with here at the hospital?"

Jesse and Amanda exchanged blank looks. 

"It doesn't have to be the word 'royal' directly," Steve elaborated. "Maybe something associated with royalty."

"Like 'palace' or 'prince' or something?"

Steve nodded. As the gang started listing any words associated with royalty that they could think of, he interrupted them. "Wait a minute. We need to put this together with what we got from the tape. Dad'll know that we'd have found that – maybe the clue only makes sense taken in conjunction with the tape."

"The bug truck?" Jesse thought a minute. "A royal bug truck?"

"I could check and see if there are any exterminators or pest services with 'royal' in their names," suggested Cheryl. "And we can concentrate on any located in the general area identified by the trace."

"Check for words like 'palace', 'king', 'queen', and so on," said Steve. "I still don't think Dad would have used the actual word that appears in the name – it'd be too risky."

"Okay," agreed Cheryl, but with lifted eyebrows. It certainly seemed like a long shot. "I'll see if we've got any 'King' or 'Queen' Exterminators."

"Wait a minute," Jesse muttered, his face intent. "Something rings a bell, there… king something…"

"King Exterminators?" asked Amanda.

"Bug King!" Jesse exclaimed. He looked around at the others and explained excitedly, "I remember when I was watching late night television a couple of months back, I used to see these crazy commercials for some exterminator service – Pesticide Pete, or something, and they called themselves the 'Bug King'!"

"Didn't they just go out of business?" Cheryl objected.

"But they may still have a facility out here," Steve said, flipping his cell phone back open to call the station. "Let's find out where their facilities were and what happened to their trucks." The others waited anxiously for him to get the information from the police computer. When he finally got off the phone, he wore an expression of grim satisfaction.

"The Pesticide Pete company rented space in a warehouse in the southern section of the city," he said. "It's currently listed as vacant."

"So they could be holding Mark there," Amanda observed.

Steve nodded. "And not all of their trucks have been sold off yet," he added.

"Okay, so now what – do we go out there and get him?" asked Jesse.

Steve and Cheryl exchanged glances, Steve's face turning hard again. "It's too risky," he said. "There's no way to get in there without them seeing us. And there'd be nothing to stop them from killing Dad before we could get to him."

"So what do we do?" Amanda asked.

"We wait for them to come out," Steve replied grimly. "They have the drop set up for tomorrow morning; the safest time to grab them will be when they leave for the park. They'll have no reason to be on their guard then; they have no way of knowing that Dad managed to tip us off. Even if they suspected he was trying to send a message when I talked to him, the 'royal' clue wouldn't mean much if we didn't know about the truck. And they certainly don't know he left that tape recorder running, or they would have taken it away when they took him."

"What if they leave early for the drop?" Jesse asked.

"We can put a watch all around the place starting tonight," Cheryl said. "We'll know if anyone goes in or out."

"They're most likely to leave about an hour or two before the meet," Steve added. "They'll want to be there early enough to make sure I don't have the place staked out, but there's no point in them getting there much before dawn. But they won't be expecting us to be waiting for them at the warehouse; that'll be our best chance to get Dad away from them."

"They may not be planning on bringing him to the drop," said Cheryl quietly, reluctant to bring the possibility out into the open, "or even swapping him at all."

"They're probably not," Steve said, his voice level but his eyes betraying his anxiety. "But I'm counting on Dad to convince them that I'm not likely to actually hand over that book until I either see or hear from him. So, it's in their best interest to keep him alive, at least until they make sure I bring that book to the drop."

They were quiet for a moment, afraid to think about what might happen if the kidnappers weren't convinced that they should keep Mark alive. Amanda's heart went out to Steve, who was definitely showing signs of the strain. 

"When I think of all the times Mark's convinced us to do things we didn't want to do," she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere, "that sounds like a pretty safe bet to me!" That drew a smile from all of them.

Steve smiled with the rest, but the smile was short-lived. The thought of waiting around, not knowing what was happening to his father, was agonizing. But he knew there was really no choice; any other option was almost certain to get Mark killed. He reminded himself that his father had a history of great resourcefulness in such situations. But it didn't make the thought of just sitting there any easier.

"All right," said Cheryl, drawing a deep breath. "I'll get everything set up. We'll keep a watch on the place tonight, and I'll have a full team ready to move in just before dawn tomorrow."

"I'm coming with you," declared Steve.

"Steve, there's nothing more you can do; we can handle it from here."

"It's my father's life on the line here, and I'm going to be there when this goes down." Steve's tone left no room for argument.

Cheryl exchanged looks with Jesse and Amanda.

"Look, Steve," Jesse said, "you said yourself nothing's likely to happen before dawn. At least get some sleep until then. I'll take you out there myself by dawn, or Cheryl can pick you up – whatever. But at least you'll be more likely to still be on your feet when things start happening."

Steve again battled with his frustration at his weakness. He desperately wanted to be at the scene immediately; if he had to wait around, he wanted to at least wait where he would be in a position to act if something went wrong. But he knew that Jesse was right about his usefulness being impaired if he didn't get some rest. Already fatigue was intensifying his weakness and causing his mind to feel fuzzy, and he couldn't afford to be slow – mentally or physically – once it came to the showdown. He looked over at Cheryl.

"You'll call me if there's any sign of activity during the night," he insisted. She nodded. "And I want to be up and out of here by 4:30," he challenged Jesse.

"No problem. I promise – I'll get you up myself," he replied. "I'll stay in the on-call room."

Steve nodded and sagged back against the bed, his expression grim and bitter. Cheryl looked at him sympathetically, and left to start getting everything in place. 

Chapter 7

The following morning, shortly before dawn, Steve and Jesse joined Cheryl in one of the vehicles staking out the warehouse. Steve was still pale and somewhat drawn, but he had, contrary to his own expectations, managed to sleep during the night. Jesse, on the other hand, had been pleased, but not surprised, to find him asleep when he had come to get him. Knowing how keyed up and on edge Steve was, Jesse had decided to ensure the result by adding a mild sedative to his friend's IV. It was, as he had explained to Amanda, not strong enough to dope him up; it was just a mild aid to help relax him so that his body's exhaustion would take over and claim the rest that he so desperately needed. Needless to say, he hadn't bothered informing Steve of this decision.

As they sat in Cheryl's car, watching the entrance to the warehouse, she gave them a quick update on the situation.

"Everything's been quiet through the night," she assured her partner. "And we found a dark green Pesticide Pete truck parked around the back. It had a slightly dented front bumper, and a couple of streaks of what looked like blue paint. So it looks like this is definitely the right place."

Steve nodded in satisfaction. Now if only they could take these guys out without his father getting hurt, this whole nightmare would be over shortly. There was no point in thinking about the possibility that they might already have killed his father; he had learned long ago that the only way he could get through these situations was by assuming that his father was still okay and that they would manage to rescue him somehow. 

"If they leave Dad behind, as I suspect they will," Steve instructed, "make sure the car gets a couple of blocks away before stopping them. I don't want anything to alert whoever remains behind."

Cheryl nodded her understanding, and they sat in silence, waiting and watching. Fortunately, they didn't have too long to wait before they saw the warehouse door open, and several men come out.

"Okay, this is it," Steve said, his voice tense. "Radio the other units to be ready." As they watched, they saw three men walk across the parking lot and get in a sedan. Steve frowned, watching them. "Three men," he muttered, thinking out loud. "That should be all of them."

"What makes you think there's only three of them?" Jesse asked.

"So far, we've only had any indication of three men: the two guys in the car who shot at Dad and me – presumably the same two guys who ran Dad off the road – and the one who called me last night. This is obviously only a temporary spot they're using to hold Dad; there'd be no reason to clutter up the place with any extraneous personnel."

"So if nobody's left in there, we can just go in and get Mark!" 

Steve and Cheryl exchanged glances; it was Cheryl who expressed the concern she knew Steve felt. "Why are they leaving him unguarded?" Jesse's face fell as he considered that. The most obvious answer was that there was no longer a need to guard him – possibly because he was already dead.

Once the car with the kidnappers had driven off, Steve drew a deep breath and got out of the car, followed by Cheryl and Jesse. Guns in hand, they cautiously approached the building. When they got to the front door, Steve warned Jesse to stay back until he and Cheryl verified that it was safe. As they entered the building, Steve wasn't sure if he hoped they would encounter resistance or not. However, there was nobody in the office. They looked around and saw signs that people had been there – take-out food containers in the wastebaskets, Styrofoam cups littered around. But there was neither sight nor sound of any people. 

Steve and Cheryl exchanged wary glances, and Steve called out to Jesse that he could come in. Trying to suppress the fear that was growing in his heart, Steve moved through the various rooms, searching for any sign of his father.

"**Dad?**" he called loudly. No response. He looked at Cheryl. "You're **sure** nobody went in or out of here last night?"

"Positive," she responded. "He's got to be here somewhere."

"Unless they took him out before you got here," Steve remarked grimly.

"But then why stay here until this morning?" Cheryl asked. "Like you said, this is just a temporary hide-out."

Jesse suddenly interrupted them. "Hey, do you smell that?"

Steve turned his attention to the unpleasant odor that he had barely noticed, but that was now getting stronger. "Gas!" he exclaimed. He turned to Cheryl. "Call the gas company and the fire department." She picked up her walkie talkie to relay the message, as Steve turned back to Jesse. 

"Now we know why they didn't leave a guard behind," he said grimly. "They're planning on letting the building blow up with Dad inside. We've got to spread out and find him! Fast!"

They fanned out, periodically calling out to Mark, frantically searching the warehouse. Suddenly Steve stopped, listening. He heard a faint, regular thumping. Calling out to the others, he headed in the direction of the sound. 

As they followed the sound deeper into the warehouse storage area, they noticed that the smell of gas was much stronger back here, and the thumps were coming at less frequent intervals. Steve spotted a closed-in storage bin, and quickly ran to it. Sure enough, the thumps were coming from inside.

"Dad?" he called. Two weak thumps answered him; as he strained to listen, he heard muffled coughing noises from inside. "Hang on, Dad, we're coming!" he called, tugging at the door. Finding the door locked, he quickly searched for something to use to jimmy it open. He found a crowbar and started to try to pry the door open, but was hampered by his inability to use his right arm. By this time, the smell of gas had become intense, and they were all coughing. 

"Let me do it," Jesse urged, grabbing the crowbar. "It's faster with two good arms," he added before Steve could object. Steve let him take the tool – his shoulder was throbbing mercilessly, and between the concussion, the gas, and the coughing, he was feeling increasingly dizzy. 

In another moment, Jesse had the door open. Steve pushed forward to peer into the bin, and saw his father lying on the floor, hands and feet bound, coughing weakly around the gag in his mouth, half asphyxiated by the combination of gas and pesticide odors that had built up in the bin. Ignoring his own weakness and discomfort, Steve crawled in next to Mark, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible.

"Hang on, Dad," he said again, as he pulled his pocket knife and sliced quickly through the ropes. "We'll have you out of here right away." He pulled the gag from his father's mouth, his eyes anxious, as he asked urgently, "Are you okay? Can you move?"

Still coughing, Mark nodded, and Steve backed out of the bin, his father crawling after him. Once out of the bin, Steve and Jesse helped Mark up. The ropes had cut off circulation in Mark's legs for so long that he found himself unable to stand on his own. Steve and Jesse each threw one of his arms around their necks, and half carried, half supported him out of the warehouse as quickly as they could.

By the time they emerged from the building, the three of them were coughing uncontrollably. They were greeted by a couple of firefighters who directed them over to the fire truck, where they were given oxygen masks. The sound of sirens filled the air, as more emergency vehicles arrived, and the firefighters and people from the gas company swarmed into the warehouse to try to control the danger before the building exploded.

Steve and Jesse gently lowered Mark to the ground next to the firetruck, and sank down beside him, gratefully breathing in oxygen from the masks. Steve kept his gaze on his father, his eyes still filled with concern. 

"Are you okay, Dad?" he asked, as soon as he could stop coughing long enough to talk.

Mark nodded. "I'll be fine," he replied hoarsely, still pulling in big gasps of oxygen. 

Relieved, Steve sagged back against the firetruck, feeling the effects of the last 24 hours catching up with him. Now that his father was safe and the need for action was over, he could allow himself to give in to the weakness that he had been so desperately fighting. He didn't even argue when Jesse came over to check him out and make sure he hadn't torn open the stitches in his shoulder or his head.

As an ambulance pulled into the parking lot, Cheryl came back from talking to some of the officers who had been following the kidnappers' car. 

"Did we get them?" Steve asked.

She nodded. "No problem. They were totally taken by surprise." She looked over at Mark. "Too bad all our kidnap victims don't manage to tell us exactly where they're being held!"

Steve and Mark exchanged grins – somewhat weak grins, but full of shared affection. Steve started to get up, and staggered as the dizziness washed over him again. Jesse pushed him back down. 

"Okay, that's enough out of you," he said sternly. "Now that the excitement's over, you're officially back to being a patient!" As Mark sat up, intending to go to his son, Jesse turned on him as well. "You too!" he ordered, pointing his finger at Mark. "You're now on the sick list too."

"Jesse, I'm fine," Mark protested, somewhat spoiling his effect by going into another paroxysm of coughing. 

"You need a course of oxygen to counteract all the gas and chemicals you breathed in, you've got a crack on the head that needs looking at, and you're probably dehydrated as well," Jesse told him. "You're both getting in that ambulance and going back to Community General!"

Steve and Mark looked at him and then back at each other. "I think he's enjoying this," Steve said.

"Undoubtedly," replied his father, a twinkle in his eye.

"Yeah, well, you both behave yourselves," retorted Jesse, "or I'll see that you don't get out of the hospital this time for a least a week!"

Marked smiled, then his face took on a look of concentration. "Today's Thursday, isn't it?" he asked. When Jesse nodded, he said, "Actually, maybe being admitted to the hospital for a few days isn't such a bad idea, after all." They looked at him in surprise, a hint of concern reappearing in Steve's face. Mark gazed back at them with an expression of comical dismay. "I think this is the day I arranged to have exterminators spray the house for ants!"


End file.
